


Your Soul Could Never Grow Old

by brazenlyunabashedlyshamelessly



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, and I don't know what happened, i was on the train
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 21:31:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3825760
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brazenlyunabashedlyshamelessly/pseuds/brazenlyunabashedlyshamelessly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey and Ian got old while we weren't looking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Soul Could Never Grow Old

**Author's Note:**

> I was listening to Ed Sheeran's Thinking Out Loud when this came to me.

It was a Saturday morning, and Mickey was sitting in the living room, staring dully at the TV. As he listened to the lady spouting off about all the ways his life would change for the better if he bought some non-stick frying pan, he found himself fighting back a hacking cough; it wasn’t working. Feeling like his chest was constricting, and struggling to inhale, Mickey couldn’t hold it back.

The sound was loud in the quiet house.

“You gotta do those breathing exercises the doc taught you, Mick,” Ian told him. He came out of their bedroom to give Mickey a stern look. “We didn’t fork out all that money for you to just ignore him.”

“Fuckin’…. quack…“ Mickey gasped out between coughs. It took him a moment to get it under control; as soon as he could breathe again, he levelled an irritated glare at Ian. Even after all these years, he was still beautiful to Mickey. But that didn’t mean he had to agree with Ian on this one.

"Asshole told me I gotta do yoga. What kinda bullshit is that?”

“Bullshit that’ll keep you from dyin’,” Ian retorted. “You wanna haul a friggin’ oxygen tank ‘round from now on?”

Mickey didn’t want to give the obvious response for that, so he settled on scowling. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise that he’d been diagnosed with emphysema. He’d started smoking by the time he was thirteen, and hadn’t let up in the fifty years since. Then, after he’d finally gone legit and began working construction, he hadn’t wanted to wear those stupid little white masks.

And, as it turned out, consequence was a bitch.

Letting out a tired sigh, Ian came to sit beside him. His tall figure had become slumped with age, but his wrinkled skin was still covered with freckles. Ian had also put on some weight around his middle, even though he was religious about his morning run; it drove him crazy.

“C'mon, Mick,” he said. “I want you round for at least another ten years. You gotta take care of yourself.”

“I am,” Mickey answered tightly.

Ian seemed to sense that an argument was on the horizon, so he let it drop.

"Hey, you wanna go watch a movie? We get pensioner’s discount.”

The bright question had Mickey’s heart sinking. A movie? Feeling miserable, but not wanting to shit on Ian’s parade, Mickey reluctantly agreed.

“But not one of those stupid fuckin’ end of the world movies,” he called over his shoulder as Ian went to grab their wallets, glasses, and Mickey’s inhaler. “Those never make any goddamn sense,” he continued as they left the house.

The short walk to the car had Mickey slightly breathless, and he tried to hide it from Ian. He knew it was stupid, but a fucked up sense of pride kept reminding him of his glory days. Drinking and smoking and running from the cops with no problem. Now he could barely walk a couple of yards without wheezing.

He climbed into the driver’s seat, ignoring the exasperated look Ian aimed in his direction. He might not be able to breathe, but his eyes were still good for long distance. And there’d been too many near misses with Ian behind the wheel for Mickey to let the old man drive if he could help it.

“You’re a hazard drivin’,” Ian told him as he started the car. “You could end up havin’ a coughin’ fit, drive into a tree, an’ kill us both.”

“Least I’ll see the fuckin’ tree,” Mickey shot back. “You can drive again when you get your eyes checked.”

They drove in huffy silence until they got to the theatre. Unable to find a decent spot, Mickey was forced to park the car around the block.

“How 'bout I drop you off, then park the car,” Ian suggested. “I’ll only be a couple minutes.”

“No,” Mickey said shortly as he climbed out.

“Don’t be a stubborn ass.” Ian quickly caught up to him, reaching out to link his arm through Mickey’s.

“Am not,” Mickey huffed. “An’ I don’t need your help, Gallagher,” he informed Ian as they walked. “Got two legs, an’ both of 'em work.”

Still, he leaned some of his weight against Ian, gritting his teeth when they had to stop a couple times so he could catch his breath. And even though he was frustrated with himself, Mickey didn’t take for granted the fact that he and Ian could walk arm in arm like this.

By the time they reached the theatre, Mickey’s legs felt kind of wobbly. Leaning against the ticket booth, he was barely listening as Ian bought the tickets.

“What we get?” he asked when Ian was done.

“They did a remake of Love, Actually,” Ian replied casually as he led them over to buy popcorn.

“Gallagher, you fuckin’ didn’t.” Mickey gave Ian a hard look. “I’m serious, I ain’t so old that I can’t kick your ass.”

Ian gave him a wounded look that only lasted a few seconds. Lips twitching, he soon burst out laughing.

“God, you shoulda seen your face,” Ian said through snickers.

“Asshole,” Mickey grumbled.

They sat through two hours of loud explosions and poor plot line. And even though Mickey had no fucking clue what was going on, he didn’t mind. Sitting in the dark with Ian, sharing a popcorn and holding hands, was worth the loud noises and bright lights.

Leaving the theatre, Mickey let out a huge yawn.

“You have fun?” Ian asked as they made their way to the car.

“Coulda used a nap,” Mickey replied. “Would’ve if it weren’t so goddamn noisy. And the little shits behind us kept kickin’ my fuckin’ chair,” he groused.

“Yeah, I know. I heard you threaten to break their legs,” Ian told him.

Something about Ian’s tone had Mickey looking up to glare at him.

“What?” he demanded.

“Nothin’. It’s just… You’re not in your twenties anymore, Mick. Someone could hurt you.”

“Oh, come on,” Mickey scoffed. “I was dealin’ drugs and runnin’ guns 'fore their parents were even in diapers.”

“Yeah, and now you’re the one in diapers,” Ian said blithely.

“Fuck you, Gallagher, I don’t wear fuckin’ diapers!” Hurt pride had Mickey pulling away from Ian. Jesus, the thought of being that far gone terrified him. He didn’t want to be a burden, to have Ian taking care of him if he ever became like that. Bad enough that Ian had to make sure he took his pills, and ate right, and did his goddamn breathing exercises; if he ever deteriorated to the point where he needed diapers, he’d shoot himself.

Morose at the thought, Mickey didn’t say anything until they got home.

“What you want for dinner?” Ian asked once they’d gotten inside the house. “You can’t take your pills on an empty stomach.”

“Yeah, I fuckin’ know that,” Mickey barked in response. “Don’t need you to remind me.”

Ian’s patience snapped. Slamming down the pan he’d pulled out onto the counter, Ian stalked over to him.

“Okay, you wanna tell me what the fuck your problem is? I was kiddin’ 'bout the diapers, for God’s sake.”

“I know.”

“Then why are you bein’ like this?” Ian demanded.

“'Cause I don’t want you to…” Mickey struggled for words. “You coulda had anybody. Now, you’re stuck with some old hack who can’t breathe right, in the same shitty neighbourhood you grew up in.”

There was a long silence, and Mickey felt embarrassed. He would’ve thought that they’d be long past that, that they’d been through too much together for him to be uncomfortable telling Ian how he felt.

“Mick, l love you, but you’re a dumbass.” Ian rolled his eyes a little, clearly thinking of some way to placate Mickey. His face darkened for a moment before he spoke in a more subdued voice.

“I love you,” he said again, more earnestly this time. “And that means we take care of each other, remember? In good times an’ bad, sickness an’ health, an’ all that other bullshit.” Ian paused. “You told me that.”

Staring down at his hands, at the faded tattoos on his knuckles, Mickey felt a single tear run down his face. Of all the things he remembered about their relationship, that day was the one he most wished he could forget.

But even after all that, he and Ian had come back stronger, he reminded himself. They were still together, still in love.

A pair of wrinkled hands settled comfortingly over his. Long, familiar fingers; skin that was still dusted with freckles; Mickey loved those hands.

“I don’t want you to feel like you’re stuck with me,” Mickey said softly, still not looking up.

“Course I’m stuck with you,” Ian answered. “An you’re stuck with me.”

“Don’t know who has it worse,” Mickey muttered after a few seconds.

“Smartass. Now, c'mon, help me make dinner.”

Relief rushed through Mickey. They were okay. Just like they always were.

“Fine,” he said loudly. “But not fuckin’ broccoli. If I never see that shit again, it’ll be too fuckin’ soon.”

“Shut up,” Ian huffed. “You’ll eat what the doctor says you’ll eat, whether you choke it down yourself or I gotta shove it down your throat.”

Hiding his smile, Mickey geared himself up to argue some more.


End file.
